


the house built on fresh snow

by tiend



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Found Family, Original Character(s), Slavery, Space Pirates, Spice, Star Wars - Freeform, shmango unchained, so many, so many original characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2020-05-04
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:53:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23854915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiend/pseuds/tiend
Summary: Shmi Skywalker tends to the failing engines of an old spice freighter. It's a small life. She's learned not to hope for more. Her routine is shattered by the arrival of a new slave. Taken on as a cargo handler, he refuses to be obedient. He fights. His name is Jango Fett, and he's convinced they're going to get out of there.
Relationships: Jango Fett/Shmi Skywalker
Comments: 39
Kudos: 326
Collections: May the 4th Be With You Star Wars Fanworks Exchange 2020





	the house built on fresh snow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Shadaras](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shadaras/gifts).



Readings off the distillate plant were as skewed as ever. Shmi’s mouth soured as she logged the values. The Chief of Engineering had yet to find a matching reboiler at a price the captain would accept. In the meantime, vapour return clogged the filters fast enough that Shmi had to clean them every second day. Not today, though; next was topping off the coolant in the header tanks. 

“That new asshole bit me. Doc has me putting shit on it twice a day for the infection.” The newcomer’s arrival had been masked by the constant clamour in the engine rooms. ”Human mouths are disgusting. Look at this.”

“Revolting,” said Movot, a red nikto. He tended to leave Shmi to her work. “They’re not even carnivores.” 

“My arm thinks it’s a karking trandoshan.” Shmi placed the whine; a weequay who always wore a stun baton holstered on each hip. They were the ship’s cargo master, responsible for loading and unloading the spice. “It keeps getting into fights with the rest of the handlers.” Those slaves were supposed to be nothing more than docile muscle.

“So put a bolt through its brain.” Crouching out of sight behind the condensation tower, she didn’t have to see the shrug. Movot was a problem-solver.

“Can’t, or I would’ve already capped it,” said the weequay. “Captain took it as some kind of favour for an aristo, and the aristo wants it alive and suffering.”

“Captain’ll have your guts for garters,” Movot agreed. ”Knock it’s teeth out.”

“Human teeth grow back,” said the weequay. “I think.” 

The nikto huffed amusement. “Could ask our human. She’s here somewhere.” 

“Karabast, I always forget your Chief bought her own.” 

“Chuba! Hey, Shmi!” the nikto bellowed, slapping his thigh. “Get over here.”

Shmi put her tools down, pointlessly tried to wipe grease off her overalls, and presented herself.

“Sirs,” she said, eyes on the deckplates.

The weequay snorted. “So polite.”

“Good worker, too,” said Movot paternally. “Shmi, do human teeth grow back?”

“Not after adulthood,” she said, and hoped she hadn’t doomed the biter to enthusiastic amateur dentistry.

“Good news,” said the weequay, circling Shmi, their boots shuffling in and out of view. “For me. Movot, my chum, where do you keep her?”

“Chief has a hutch down in port storage. Nice bit of tech actually, you should have a look at it.”

“A package deal, I remember,” said the weequay, nodding. “The other one’s an ugnaught?”

“It’s only her now. There was an accident.” Movot shifted his weight. A pressurised jet of steam had gotten the ugnaught directly in the eye. Cleaning up had been memorably unpleasant.

“So there’s a spare, huh? If I need to get out of bed again to break something up I’m gonna beat it to death, swear to Am-Shak, and you’re saying you got space -”

The nikto shook his head. “You ask the Chief. They were her credits. That makes it her call.”

“I’ll give you half a gram of spice if there’s biting,” said the weequay. “Your human doesn’t look very appetising.” 

They laughed. Shmi counted rivets in the deck plates. 

“Get back to it,” the nikto told her, waving a hand in dismissal.

“Sirs,” she said, bobbing her head, and retreated to her job sheet.

* * *

The hutch’s lights had switched to night mode by the time they brought him down. Shmi had begun to hope the Chief had refused, but the bulkhead doors whooshed open, and the sounds of a struggle began to echo through the hangar. She watched, face pressed to the mesh. A gamorrean in front, dragging the man by his collar chain. Blue arcs from the stun batons flashed as the weequay kept him stumbling forward. He fought them the whole way to the hutch. There, the weequay shocked both of his legs, dropping him to the floor. A club from the gamorrean’s fist to his head kept him down for the moment.

“Oh, this is fancy,” the weequay said as they unlocked the door. “Nicer than my dear mama’s.”

The gamorrean threw him in, and shackled his neck chain to the front wall. He rolled to his feet in one movement, cuffed hands open and ready, and lips peeled back from intact teeth. Too late. Both guards were on the other side of the locked door, and from what Shmi could see, were pleased to be there.

“Sweet dreams,” said the weequay to Shmi, grinning, and sauntered off, twirling one of the stun batons. 

“Who’re you?” the man demanded.

Shmi’s mouth dropped open. He was cuffed and collared, same as her - worse than her, really, since she had shoes and she wasn’t chained to anything - and he’d just taken a beating.

“Who are you?” he repeated with an edge she recognised. _Don’t make me ask again._

“I’m Shmi,” she said, shrinking backwards with reflexive deference. “I’m a mechanic. I work in engineering.”

Just as quickly, he dismissed her to look around the hutch’s interior, the various bits of useful junk she’d managed to accumulate. Bits of fabric she’d woven through the mesh to block drafts, a couple of flaps of tarp, and the clutter on the lower two bunks.

When the Chief of Engineering had bought the hutch the Zygerrian had given her a discount on the occupants. Shmi and Otha hadn’t had to leave it on transfer of ownership. They had been floated over in situ on a repulsorlift sled to its current position, before the Chief had opened the door, and told them to get busy anchoring it in case the ship’s inertial compensators failed. Even with a solitary occupant, the misshapen cube wasn’t spacious. Three narrow bunks on one side, an open mesh wall on the other. Down the back was the ‘fresher, leaving a small open space by the door. 

“Do you know why I’m here?” he asked, pulling the rest of his collar chain into the hutch.

“The cargomaster isn’t allowed to kill you yet,” said Shmi stupidly. “And you keep starting fights.”

“Huh,” he said. “My name’s Jango, by the way. Jango Fett.” It meant nothing to her.

He paid out the chain, walking backwards. There was slack left when he reached the back wall.

“Do you mind if I use this?” The man jerked his head towards the ‘fresher. Whoever had designed it had made sure everything was visible from the front. Shmi had begged a bit of tarp, but it was a poor substitute for a door.

“No,” said Shmi, and put her fingers in her ears to give him a bit of privacy. 

Even in the low light he was visibly cleaner on reappearance. So much Shmi had expected; she’d souped up the ‘fresher’s underpowered ultrasonics. But he was handsome. Ridiculously and unfairly, clean-limbed and straight, all muscle and smooth brown skin. About her age, if he was human like she was, maybe half way through his twenties.

“Tell me about the cargomaster,” he invited. Shmi propped herself up on an elbow - the bunks had minimal headroom - to find she was almost at eye level.

“The weequay?” she said. “You keep getting in trouble, they said, and they have to put up with it, because the deal was that you have to be alive and suffering.” The weequay had taken the suffering part seriously. Shmi knew how painful the shocks alone were, without the concurrent beating Jango had taken. He was going to be stiff with bruises come morning. 

“Hmmm,” he said, holding the chain out of the way as he poked around the hutch. 

“Cargomaster would rather,” she stopped.

“Murder me,” he said easily. “There’s a queue.”

“Oh.” A disquieting thought. Shmi tried to be unobtrusive, a quiet competent presence, having learnt that drawing attention to oneself rarely turned out well for the average slave. Bewilderingly, Jango was almost casual about one of the masters wanting him dead.

“What’s the rest of this stuff?” 

“At night when I’m locked in I sort and clean it.” She’d made a half-hearted attempt to clear the middle bunk. “See if anything can be salvaged.”

Jango stirred a pile of washers with his finger. “Can I move this stuff?”

“Yes - I mean no - don’t worry - I’ll do it - it’s my mess.” She wriggled off her bunk and onto the floor, too close to Jango for comfort. Perhaps it was obvious, because he backed off into the opposite corner. Shmi scooped everything heedlessly onto the bottom bunk, mixing up her carefully sorted piles in her haste. 

“All done.” She swept the pallet with her arm to demonstrate. “It’s yours now.”

Jango was looking at the freshly cleared space with visible longing. Shmi scrambled back up, foot slipping, and watched him climb in. Chain clinked as he tried to arrange the weight off his neck.

“Jango?”

“Hmmm?” 

“I have an extra blanket,” Shmi said, lowering it over the side. It was her only blanket, but she had insulated overalls and work socks. Jango’s feet were bare, and the stun baton had scorched right through his clothes to his skin.

“I owe you.” He sighed, cloth rustling as he tucked it around himself.

“You don’t.” People should help each other. The galaxy would have fewer problems if they did.

* * *

Movot checked her for injuries in the morning. Nikto physiology didn’t lend itself to frowns, but he would’ve been wearing one if he could. Eventually, satisfied that there were none, he grunted and left Shmi to her job sheet and the whir of her thoughts. 

Halfway through replacing a turbine brush, she admitted she wanted the weequay to bring Jango back, and stabbed herself with a spring. If only he wouldn’t fight - but if he didn’t he might end up with the rest of the cargo slaves. This was not a conundrum Shmi could resolve, especially not sitting like a fool squeezing blood out from under her nail. 

But whatever deal the weequay had made seemed permanent. Sometimes they left him there while Shmi worked. Once, she’d come back to find he’d started cleaning the lowest bunk’s detritus with the ‘fresher’s ultrasonics. An excellent idea, if only the motor hadn’t burnt out. He didn’t seem to understand how lucky they were; not much upset the Chief’s equilibrium outside of her precious engine rooms. Shmi managed to cobble together as a replacement.

Weeks turned to months. The freighter tracked its haphazard course around the Middle Rim. Although the ship mostly carried spice, any cargo would do if the captain could turn a credit carrying it. Each time they made port, the weequay would come for Jango, and he’d disappear for days at a stretch, coming back haggard with exhaustion from unloading and loading the freighter. When it was spice, he’d come back and hit the fresher’s button again and again, in a futile effort to clean away every last grain of the drug. Shmi lay silent in her bunk and ached with things she couldn’t explain to herself.

But there were words for other things. The fetters had barely closed around Jango’s wrists and neck before he’d been marched onto the ship. He was ignorant of the quiet ways of rebelling. Shmi had been born to it; in the watches of the night they talked it over, the methods of resistance that would keep the spirit intact over long, constrained years. 

“It sounds like living in an occupied territory,” Jango had said, and then had to tell her what that was. He was generous with his explanations. Shmi thought he would’ve made an excellent teacher. Better than her. Most of Shmi’s knowledge came from rote memorisation and practical experience.

Only one of her masters had let her read. More accurately, Pi-Lippa had let Shmi teach herself to read, as a prerequisite of her technical training. It took her some time to make Jango understand how rare that indulgence was, and that on some worlds she would have been executed for it. Eventually he accepted that, but refused to believe Pi-Lippa was a good master. In his opinion, a good master would free you on the spot.

“Then what?” Shmi had said, exasperated. “Leave me on the street with nowhere to go?”

“You’re smart and resilient. Any number of clans would be proud to have you join.” Jango shrugged. 

“If only I could find them,” she said with more asperity than she usually allowed herself, but he only laughed, the sound ringing out in the empty hangar.

Defining what a Mandalorian clan was hopelessly self-referential, and required frequent digressions. It wasn’t just that Mandalorians were nomadic, while others were farmers. Ideological schisms abounded; some were pacifists; some refused to be seen out of armour. For many, pacifist or not, the metal that the armour was made from - _beskar_ \- was more important than the armour itself.

Any of these people could form a clan, an _aliit_ , and share their clanhome, their _aliityaim_. Jango struggled to articulate what he’d intuitively known; a clan home didn’t need to be a place, although it could be, and if it was, you weren’t necessarily part of the clan if you stood on it. 

“Like people who all draw water from the same well?” asked Shmi, scrunching her face up and setting off a detour into Concord Dawn’s water management.

Mandalorians didn’t even agree on which planets made up Mandalore; the current ruling house was from Kalevala, which barely counted. According to Jango, at least, whose family had been farmers, before he’d worn the armour and then lost it in circumstances he didn’t talk about. Perhaps the single unifying factor of being a Mandalorian was arguing with other Mandalorians about what counted as being Mandalorian. Shmi said as much, and Jango didn’t bother to muffle his groan.

“You know what they say. Two Mandos, five opinions.”

“I didn’t, actually. You’re the first Mandalorian I’ve ever met.”

“Haar’chak, Shmi.” Jango rolled over. “How’s your finger doing?”

“Better, thanks.” Shmi hadn’t cleaned the spring before stabbing herself with it, and the wound had become infected. They’d had to cut her fingernail open to get to it, and by then it’d been bad enough that the Chief of Engineering had all but thrown some medical supplies at Shmi, along with a pair of heavy work gloves.

“It’s the Chief that-?” The Chief that owns me. He couldn’t say it.

“Yes. I told you she’s not so bad.” 

Jango snorted. He had no intention of changing his opinion about good masters. “Why the Chief? Why aren’t you with the ship?”

“The ship is owned by a hutt,” and so are you, Shmi thought. “The captain can’t spend money upgrading the engines, so the Chief bought us - me and Otha - to keep them running. They’re old, and need lots of maintenance.”

“Hutts _are_ cheap.” It sounded bitterly personal. “I don’t understand why she didn’t buy parts or droids instead of slaves.”

“Because she’d never get her money back. This way, she could sell us - me - to recoup costs.”

“That’s osik’la.”

“What’s sikkla?”

He ignored her question. “Is that why that di’kut doesn’t touch you?”

“Sorry? Dikkut?”

“The cargomaster. That hut’uun of a weequay.” So many words she didn’t know.

“Yes. The Chief wouldn’t like it if I was damaged.” The sephi woman in a rage was terrifying. “Is that their name?”

“Fierfek, no. Di’kut is Mando’a. Means something like asshole.” Shmi giggled quietly, putting one hand over her mouth. They were alone in the hutch. “No idea what their name is.”

“Me neither. Weequay don’t share their names much.” 

“Wish that di’kut would stop sharing the batons,” said Jango, stretching out in the limited bunk space.

“You provoke them.”

“I provoke them by breathing.” Almost right. Jango didn’t carry himself like a slave. He made eye contact. He was sarcastic. He was stubborn, so stubborn, and Shmi was afraid he’d be broken before he learnt to bend.

For he was learning; he had to, because the di’kut cargomaster had started withholding food and water from him if he didn’t. Water Shmi could help him with; she was responsible for filling the hutch’s tank. Food she could not. As it was, she spent some sleepless nights torn between relief at his survival prospects and regret that some essential Jango-ness was going to be crushed out of existence. Her concern was lifted when he started an exercise program in the evenings, using his own body weight in the tiny space the hutch afforded.

“It’s like covert ops,” he explained. “Might only have one chance, and I’ve got to be able to take it. Going hungry won’t help. It’ll just make me weaker.”

He had hope. Shmi blinked, sudden tears coming to her eyes, and didn’t argue. She did argue when Jango insisted she start exercising too, but she lost.

* * *

The freighter was attacked on the Llanic Spice Route, just a few hours out of Socorro.

Carbon dust shorted a gap, and an arc flash ignited the air. The Chief of Engineering died in an instant, her hands melted to the tibanna intake valve she’d been turning. The wall of fire rushed forward, picked up Movot and broke him over a cowling. Shmi, furthest away, had time to hit the deck before it rolled over her and crisped the hair on the back of her head to ash. She stayed down, trembling at the near miss. No one came and kicked at her to move because she was the only one left. Shmi awkwardly crawled to the centre console to activate the fire suppression system.

Far too late, orange foam sprayed from the ceiling, burying corpses and smothering the burning pools of oil. Whatever it was made of stung her burnt head. Shmi kept crawling, and for the lack of anything else to do, went to the hutch and curled up on the ‘fresher floor.

She blinked, she thought, and Jango was kneeling next to her with a blaster shoved in his belt. Aristo or no aristo, he’d be killed outright if the captain caught him.

“Careful,” she whispered.

“I’m a Mandalorian,” Jango told her. He looked exceedingly pleased with himself.

“She’s not,” said someone else. Shmi turned to look, cautiously. A big feeorin, gold-banded tentacles streaming down his back.

Jango hesitated. “She’s my wife. We go together.” 

“Far be it from me to stand in the way of romance,” said the feeorin with a smile so wide and white the weequay would’ve had it smashed out on sight. “Let’s get off this ship, crewmates. Welcome to the Revenants.”

“We’re pirates now, ” Jango explained unhelpfully. “Haar’chaak, Shmi, what happened to your hair?”

“It’s fine,” said Shmi automatically. Bacta was expensive, and she hadn’t demonstrated she could be useful.

“No, it’s not,” the feeorin disagreed, and walked them back to the boarding party. There she was handed over to a chandra-fan named Wumuri, who had to stand on a chair to reach her head. The spray was cool and blissfully analgesic. To Shmi’s disbelief, he went on to cut off her cuffs and collar with a deft flick of a plasma cutter, kicking them into the waste disposal chute with disgust. Without the pain to steady her, she felt like she was going to collapse.

“You’ll get fixed up proper on Lok,” Wumuri told her, folding the tool away. “Gonna have to take you to medbay anyway. Standard protocol for newcomers.”

“Both of us?” Jango asked.

“Of course. Force only knows where you’ve been and what you’ve gotten up to.” More medical treatment. More cost. Shmi racked her brain, trying to think of information she could trade instead of credits.

“Mate, she’s gonna pass out,” Wumuri added. Jango sat, and guided her head down gently until it rested on his leg. It was so distracting Shmi almost forgot where the Chief of Engineering had kept her smuggling cache.

“There’s a false back to the sixth locker on the left in the starboard maintenance bay,” she announced fuzzily, and went under.

Hissing hydraulics woke her. Nice and smooth, no juddering with unequal pressures or clogged lubricants. The ship settled, and then everyone else was unclipping themselves and standing up, shuffling toward the exit ramp as Kole chivvied them along. Shmi’s sideways view lent the scene an air of unreality. She supposed her world had tilted, and then fallen to a new axis. Wumuri split from the group of pirates, chirping at Kole in frequencies Shmi could barely hear. Medbay. She’d have to move. 

* * *

Lok was not very prepossessing. They had landed at the bottom of a grey-brown rock crater, scrubby vegetation clinging to its walls here and there. More ships were perched on their landing pads, but Shmi didn’t have time to look before Wumuri led them into a passageway, cut into the living rock. Lights were stuck on the arched ceiling, letting them see the cables looping down the walls, and the gritty floor. Shmi sniffed the air; it seemed to have a slight pungency, but it might be the medication on her scalp. 

As they walked, the rock walls gave way to smoothed stone and the passageways became less like tunnels and more like hallways. Windows appeared in the ceiling and walls. People of all species passed them, but Wumuri must have been well known for they weren’t stopped. Shmi shrank from the curious stares, keeping Jango between her and the others.

One last archway, and they entered a well-lit room with a med-droid in it, meditatively floating in midair.

“Nym brought in some more strays,” Wumuri told it. “Two newcomers.”

“We’re married,” Jango said with a warning squeeze of Shmi’s hand.

“Decontamination is done separately. Thank you for your co-operation,” the droid said with more synthesized blandness than Shmi had thought possible. “Follow me.”

It was obviously addressing Shmi. She dropped Jango’s hand before he could protest. Best not to start trouble when they’d barely arrived.

It led her into an examination room where a twi’lek woman was waiting, the red medical symbol bright on her shoulder. She was older than Shmi, soft lines lying easily on her face.

“I’m Berli,” she said. “Please take your clothes off, and sit on the table.” That, at least, was familiar. What wasn’t was the reassuring patter Berli kept up, telling Shmi what she was doing and why she was doing it. Every stab of a blood draw or hiss of pressurised spray was narrated. Shmi nearly went cross-eyed trying to remember it all before Berli offered to have the droid put it all on flimsi for her to read later.

“There’ll be a schedule with it, for your next rounds of treatments.” Shmi nodded. By then she would’ve proved she was worth their investment. 

“Contraception, and then we’re done,” said Berli. Heat rushed to Shmi’s face. “You shouldn’t get pregnant for a good few Lok months. You’ve got no reserves. Nothing spare for a baby.”

Shmi stared at the needle in silent consternation.

“I won’t tell your husband, if that’s what you’re worried about. Medic’s Oath.” She tapped her shoulder.

“No - it’s not that.” It was about having a husband at all. Chewing her lip, Shmi held her arm out, naked without the cuff. Her wrist was thin and knobbly. 

“M’glad Wumuri took care of you. Calluses take a while to fade.” Most slaves had them on the heels of their hands, where the cuffs rubbed. Jango’s had been so new they’d bled, and Shmi had sacrificed precious strips of cloth to use as pads. “Got tired of waiting for mine and scrubbed them off with lye.”

“Oh.”

“It’s in the past. Right now, you need some new clothes, and once I’ve found where your room assignment went, a bit of a lie down.” She shuffled through the flimsi on her desk.

Berli was as good as her word. Clutching new clothes, Shmi was delivered to a door, one of many in a long sandstone corridor. Others had been decorated with bells, or painted, but this one was unadorned. It was also hers, and Jango’s, and he was probably waiting for her. Shmi swallowed, and went in.

“The door locks from the inside,” Jango said. He was lying on the bed, hands tucked behind his head, looking up at the ceiling. Shmi fumbled with the door latch.

Privacy and a bed wider than all three bunks together, and no weequay coming to wake them with a stun baton. She swallowed again. 

“Everyone’s supposed to be at this celebration later tonight. We could go, say thank you. People like that sort of thing.” Shmi bobbed her head; Berli had scribbled a map of the compound.

“Will you be all right with your head like that?”

“I’ll be fine,” Shmi reassured him. It barely hurt at all, and the clothes-droid had given her some lengths of cloth to wrap around the bandages. 

Jango didn’t look convinced. “You might want to use the ‘fresher, Shmi. There’s a river outside, and they’re tapping a geothermal field.” 

Water, flowing freely from the taps, was astonishing, but the endless water was a revelation. She was pink as any zeltron by the time she could bring herself to get out. When her hair grew back, she could wash it with water. Like she was rich. She felt rich; the clothes the droid had given her were so new they still had creases in them, and the cloth of her turban was so soft it caught on the roughness of her mechanic’s hands. Steam billowed from the ‘fresher door into the main room when she opened it.

“That’s not a bad colour on you,” he said, one eyebrow up. “Shmi, about what I told them -”

“Don’t worry about it,” said Shmi.

“We can talk about it later,” Jango said. Maybe he sighed. Shmi couldn’t say. Couldn’t say anything. “If you’re up for it, we should probably go.”

* * *

The great oval room was filled with people who were all presumably pirates, dressed in the motley of a hundred different worlds. Banners hung from the walls. Music and conversation rose to the ceiling, tempered by the lazy spinning of fans inset into the thick rock. Directly above the firepit, a small circular opening provided an escape from the smoke. 

Berli waylaid Shmi at the entrance archway, hypospray already in one hand. “I knew you’d push it too far,” she said matter of factly as she pushed the dose of painkiller. 

“I’m sorry?” Shmi twisted to watch Jango disappear into the crowd. 

“You should be resting. How’s that now? Any itching?” 

“It was fine.”

“Of course it was,” Berli said. “Come on, there’s some people I should introduce you to.”

To Shmi’s relief, it was one of the smaller alcoves, with few enough people in it that she shouldn’t have trouble remembering their names. Berli’s friends were a courteous group, introducing themselves one by one around the circular table; a zabrak, chains swinging from her gold-capped horns, a miralan in a sleeveless vest and heavily tattooed arms but none on his green face, a zeltron who was the most beautiful woman Shmi had ever met, and two bith, brothers in matching green and brown. A toydarian in a purple sequined hat sat atop a high cushion like a throne, blue wings lazily fanning the air.

“Shmi, Shmi Skywalker.” None of them blinked; it seemed no one else in the galaxy had heard the name Skywalker.

“She just came in today, off the freighter,” Berli added.

“Oh,” said someone. “Sit down.” They shuffled themselves along on the bench seat to make room for her, except for the toydarian. She was moved atop her cushion, like a noble in a palanquin Shmi had seen once.

“You want to play the game?” The zabrak - Kopajj - asked.

“I think so. Shmi,” Berli said, picking up a half-empty bottle. “Say something about this bottle.”

“I - what?” It was only a bottle, brown-amber glass, with a peeling and unreadable label.

“You taste like shit, you wretched banthafodder,” Berli told the bottle, shaking her head at it in disapproval.

“This plate can kark off.” The mirialan held it up for Shmi to see. “I kriffing hate it’s guts.” He dropped it with a dull clunk.

After that the zeltron, Chuwst, described the many virtues of the toydarian’s cushion, and so on around the table, until it came back to Shmi.

“We were slaves before the Revenants,” Berli explained. “None of us were good at expressing opinions.”

“Or that our opinions mattered.”

“Or that we had choices. 

“But we learned.”

“Changed.”

“We healed,” said the mirialan, Jirzu, thumping the table.

“And we’re much better dressed,” Chuwst pointed out.

“Drem made it into a game.” One of the bith. “Pick a thing, say something about it.”

Shmi rubbed her calluses. “That’s not a bad colour,” she told the bottle, and half the table broke into applause. 

“Well done,” said the toydarian, and bowed with astonishing dignity, wings fluttering like a gown.

Drinks appeared. Shmi chose one. They toasted her choice. She drank it, and jubilantly told the empty cup she didn’t much care for its shape.

“Have you eaten anything?” Jango said curiously from her elbow. The table held its breath.

“I’m a better mechanic than you,” said Shmi, red flags flying high in her cheeks. The bith fluted with laughter, and Jirzu pounded the table with his fist.

“That’s a no,” said her not-really husband. 

“Oh, kark,” said Berli, already half out of her chair. Jango waved her back down.

“I know what she likes. Stay there.” 

“Thanks,” Berli ruefully said upon his return, servitor droid in tow. “I didn’t think.”

“Neither did she.” Jango shrugged, watching Shmi discover the iced water. He spread his hand out flat, fingers wide and sliced the air, sideways. “There’s no debt.”

“You Mandalorian?” Leneft asked. “We can play the bes’bev.” Drem, his quieter brother, nodded.

“Elek, yes. Haven’t heard one of those for years,” Jango said, with a tinge of what Shmi thought might be nostalgia. “What did I interrupt?”

“It’s a game,” Berli answered. “Sort of.”

“We all used to be slaves,” said Jirzu. “What? We were.” 

“You get used to things,” the zeltron said, cold as a dead star. “She doesn’t have to be used to them anymore.”

Jango frowned. “I’m not sure -” 

“Do you remember how long it took me to disagree with you?” Shmi asked.

“Yes?” He’d been frustrated, and Shmi hadn’t understood why; agreeing with people was safe. It didn’t start trouble. 

“It’s practice for that sort of thing.”

“You need to practice telling me I’m not a very good mechanic?” 

Shmi opened her mouth to tell him he was a quick learner, was picking it up very fast, and she wouldn’t be surprised if he ended up better than her. She shut it. 

“Yes,” she said. “I do.”

“Fair enough,” he said. “You’re right, though. You’re better than me. If you were Mando born you’d be a goran by now.” Close to a metalsmith, she thought, but not quite right.

Behind him, the line of Berli’s shoulders loosened. 

“We got used - I got used - to hiding in plain sight,” said Kopajj, running one finger around the rim of her glass. “Smile and nod and never let the bastards know what you’re thinking. But when you’re free -” She lifted a shoulder, dropped it again. 

“It’s a skill, so it can be taught,” said Berli, learning forward. “Making it into a game lowers the stakes, especially when - like Shmi said - you’re learning to disagree.”

“I think I see.” He didn’t, not quite, Shmi thought. But he would listen.

“It’s thirsty work,” Jirzu said. “Mind passing me that pitcher?”

“Not at all.” He’d rolled the sleeve of his new shirt up to his elbow. Muscles bunched in his forearm as he lifted it to the mirialan. 

“You know, both of you can always come talk to me in the medbay,” Berli said.

“I might just do that,” Jango said, putting one of his hands over Shmi’s and sending her stomach topsy-turvy.

“Hey, Mando,” said Kopajj, changing the subject. “Wumuri was talking about you. That stuff true?”

“I was there,” the mirialan said. “Kole filled me in. It’s all true. My oath on it.” He tapped his vest with one tattooed hand.

“Tell us,” demanded Leneft. “I’ve heard nothing.”

“What happened,” mused Jirzu, and sipped his drink. “What happened is that this sithspawn heard us boarding, got a blaster from kark knows where, and flanked the crew. They never knew what hit them. I’d almost feel sorry for them if they hadn’t been shooting at me. That’s why Nym’s so pleased. We took that freighter without a single casualty, and it was packed to the gunwales with the good stuff. Pure as a Jedi in a brothel.” 

“They were careless,” Jango said. No wonder he was so unworried; he’d managed to impress the pirate leader even before he’d come to find Shmi. “Although there was a casualty.” He motioned to Shmi’s turban.

“Burns,” she explained self-consciously. “I wasn’t fast enough.” It wouldn’t have mattered how fast she’d been if she’d been closer. Her mind obediently replayed the sound of Movot hitting the cowling, and she shivered. Jango looped an arm across Shmi’s shoulders, a warm weight to hold her in the here and now.

“Fast enough to stop the freighter going up with us on it,” Kopajj said. “Kole ripped the shit out of that gun crew the whole flight back. Wouldn’t be surprised if they get kicked off the ship.”

“My wife is brave,” he said, none of which was true. Shmi flushed.

The conversation turned to the Revenants themselves. Something calling itself The Trade Federation was harassing them, trying to get a foothold in the Karthakk system. However skilled the pirates were - excluding the gun crew - they were finding it hard to keep up.

“There’s just so many of them, and they keep coming,” Kopajj said, throwing her hands up with disgust. “Droid crews, too. Much easier to replace than we are.” Jango unbent enough to ask questions - most of which went over Shmi’s head - until the toydarian interjected. 

“No more,” Temika said, waggling her short trunk at Kopajj’s food-based map of the system. “You don’t need to know.”

Chuwst changed the subject; mentioning that she’d recently gotten approval to join one of the above-board expeditions to buy things they couldn’t make or steal. 

“Lok’s safe, but it gets boring.” She wrinkled her nose. “We’re going to Felucia.”

“Felucia?” Jango asked. “That’s just over from Galidraan.”

“Yeah,” said Jirzu. “Why?”

“My armour’s there.” His beskar’gam. He’d told Shmi about it once, his hands clenching and unclenching. She didn’t quite understand what it meant to him, to lose it, but she knew he mourned it.

“Zam,” the toydarian said, placidly, and Jirzu nodded at the apparent non-sequitur.

“She - I think, she’s a clawdite - loves heists. Loves shopping. Got Coruscanti tastes without a Coruscanti income.”

“That red suit looks amazing on her,” Chuwst said. 

“It does, but - don’t interrupt. Zam comes through every few months. She and Nym have a thing.” 

“It’s not a thing. They just fuck a lot.” 

“Leneft!” But he kept laughing.

“As I was saying,” said Jirzu, throwing a warra nut at the bith, “you should ask Zam when she turns up. Shut up, Leneft. The Revenants don’t specialise at sneaky, as you may’ve noticed. Zam loves sneaky, all that fancy high-end jewel thief stuff.”

“It helps that she can mimic anyone,” Chuwst added. 

“A clawdite, of course. She’s a shapeshifter,” Jango said to Shmi. “Most likely it’ll be with other valuables, if that would interest her.”

“It absolutely would,” said Chuwst. “I guarantee it.”

Kopajj nodded. “She’s got her own ship, too.” 

The conversation halted when a cheer went up from the centre of the hall. This late, the fire had burnt down to embers, and people were clustered around it. Shmi squinted, tilting her head. A couple had stepped up on the wide lip of the firepit, and surely they weren’t going to -

They jumped, and landed on the other side, caught by the outstretched hands of the crowd.

“If they’re starting that up, I’m for sleep,” said Berli, standing up.

“What is it?” Shmi asked.

“For good luck and new beginnings. You can do it alone, but most people jump in pairs.”

“For fertility,” said Leneft, and winked at her, a startling manoeuvre on a bith. 

“Shut up, Leneft,” said Chuwst. “I’m for bed, too. Jirzu?”

“Yeah, yeah. Drem, can you take Temika?” The toydarian was asleep atop her cushion, and snoring tunefully through her trunk.

Drem nodded. 

Jango got up too, and helped Shmi to her feet. She yawned immediately, and then yawned again. 

“You guys can find your way back?” Berli asked. “Shmi, remember to take your painkillers.”

Jango nodded. With various farewells, the group broke up. Jango and Shmi were silent as they walked through the halls back to their anonymous door. 

Inside, everything was as they’d left it. There was so much space, and a door on the fresher. She’d been too anxious to look at it before, and she was too tired now. Shmi sat on one of the chairs to take her boots off, and went to lie down on the bed.

“Shmi,” said Jango, softly. “You don’t have to sleep in your clothes.” She knew that, she’d known - she’d just forgotten. 

“I’m sorry -” she said, her arms crossed over her torso.

“It’s been a long day, and we’re both tired. Did the clothes droid give you anything to sleep in?”

There was a long, loose tunic that she thought might do, and went to get changed in the ‘fresher. When she came back he was already lying under the covers, and Shmi felt pathetically grateful at the reminder. She’d forgotten about covers, too.

Lying in the same bed was different to the bunks. There, they’d been separated, but here Shmi could feel Jango shift his weight. If she moved over, she could touch him, and if he moved over, he could touch her. Shmi swallowed. She hadn’t shared a bed for years, and that had been with other women, crammed so close that they couldn’t move without disturbing someone else.

What if he wanted - 

“Sleep well, Shmi,” Jango said, rolling over so his back was towards her.

“Sleep well,” she replied, miraculously not a squeak. As if sleep was possible, thought Shmi, and was out like a light, churning mind no match for her overtired body.

* * *

Jango was not wearing a shirt. Shmi woke up when he got out of bed, and spent a couple of disorienting seconds trying to remember where she was and why it was so soft. Then she opened her eyes to find him stretching, standing in the middle of the room, wearing nothing but the pair of loose shorts he’d presumably slept in.

She shut them firmly. There was a limit to what she could deal with, and half-naked Jango was over the line.

Back in the hutch, they had had very little privacy - not from each other, and not from anyone else in the hangar - so they’d been careful to preserve what little they did have. As a result, Shmi had tried to spend her time studying the ceiling over her bunk, or going through the spares bucket, resolutely not looking at Jango, and certainly not trying to catch a stray glimpse while he was going through his exercises.

“Shmi? You awake?” She must have made a noise.

“I thought I was still dreaming,” she said, barely slitting her eyes open.

“Not a chance,” he said. “Free. We did it, Shmi. Free.” He rolled his collarless neck, smiling with infectious triumph.

“Free,” she whispered, turning the word over in her mouth to see how it sounded.

“You absolutely are.” He flung himself back on the bed next to her. “You’re a pirate. It’s going to be strange and wonderful, Shmi.”

“Free,” she tried again, with greater confidence, declaring her new status to the room, and Jango laughed, rolling over. He was very close; so close Shmi could see his eyelashes, the rich brown of his eyes, his lips part as he brought them closer and kissed her.

His mouth was soft and warm, moving gently over hers, and Shmi couldn’t have done anything but kiss him back. Slowly, following his lead, kisses sparking along her nerves like sharp gold.  
Her arms were under the covers, and she struggled to get them free. Jango moved away in an instant.

“I’m sorry,” he said, round-eyed with horror. “Shmi, I’m sorry -” 

“No, I - I didn’t mind,” she mumbled. 

He rocked backwards, far away across an ocean of bed. “Shmi -”

“I liked it.” She plucked at the covers, self conscious and defiant.

“Did you?” 

“Yes.”

“Really?”

“Yes.” 

This time was different. This time he just brushed his lips against hers, deliberately careful. The soft friction was honey-sweet, drugging her with his nearness, and the clean smell of his skin. Shmi breathed out, and breathed him in. Her hands lay open on the covers until she remembered them, and there seemed nowhere else to put them but on Jango’s skin.

He shivered when she did that. Shivered like he’d been struck, although they lay lightly on his shoulders. Shmi’s stomach pitched and rolled with the knowledge that it was her hands doing that to him, her hands with their scarred knuckles and their cuts and burns and calluses, their short uneven nails. 

She kissed him back, harder, and he muffled a noise in the back of his throat. They seemed suspended in a timeless haze to Shmi, that the world began and ended with Jango and his warm weight half resting on her.

Someone knocked on the door. Knocked again.

“Fierfek,” Jango said, getting up and trying to tuck his erection out of sight. He threw on a tunic. Shmi threw the covers over herself. Partly in embarrassment, and partly to hide the smug expression crawling across her face. She’d done that. Shmi. Jango had liked it, liked her, and wanted more.

The murmurs of conversation ceased, and the door closed. Shmi emerged from her hiding place.

“Time to get up,” Jango said, stretching again. “Berli’s going to come back and show us around.” He paused and adjusted his shorts. “I’ll take the ‘fresher first. You stay there.”

* * *

Being a pirate was both like and unlike being a slave. The round of her days was superficially the same; the change came in how the Revenants did things as much as what they had Shmi doing. She worked hard, but the work was interesting even if it was difficult, not the endless maintenance of a failing ship. Often, someone would come past and gossip for a bit, unafraid of a stun baton’s bite. People would sing, the sound echoing down a ship’s corridor out of their sight. Jango had been right; it was strange. But it was wonderful when Shmi caught herself humming under her breath, and didn’t look around to see who could be listening.

Her not quite husband worked harder. Nym - the feeorin, the pirates’ leader - assigned him straight into a boarding party. Jango trained with them, pushing himself relentlessly. The Revenants used their argot for comms, and he drilled himself at night, repeating the brevity codes over and over again. Shmi enlisted Jirzu and Kopajj to help before the constant muttering drove her screaming down the hallways.

* * *

“He’s going to get his own ship if he keeps this up,” Kopajj said to Shmi, having found her elbow-deep in the guts of the _Zoomer_ ’s life-support system. The zabrak had hung small crystals on her horn-chains that caught the light and scattered it across the cramped bay in swaying rainbows.

“Do you think so?” said Shmi, putting down her ratchet-wrench to talk.

“Nym would be a fool if he didn’t. Just the name’s scary enough, but he’s got the brains to match it.”

“The name?”

“Karabast, Shmi. He’s Jango Fett.” Shmi blinked with confusion; there seemed to be a large gap between Kopajj and Shmi’s understanding of her almost husband. “You don’t know, do you?”

“No.” Shmi gulped. “Is it - is it very bad?”

“Not my story.” The zabrak’s expression was utterly opaque. “But I don’t envy either of you the conversation.”

* * *

Unpleasant didn’t even begin to cover it. Shmi ended up fully clothed in the bottom of the ‘fresher, arms curled around her knees, glad that the drumming of the water on her head was louder than her thoughts. She didn’t know where Jango was, and she didn’t much care. 

Jedi were semi-mythical figures to most slaves. No one had met one in person, but there were stories. Rumours. Someone they’d met once had said something, and everyone knew a lightsaber would cut chains like butter. Shmi had not dared think much about being freed - it poisoned people up from the inside - but in so far as she had, an indistinct Jedi-like figure had often featured. Sometimes they would strike her chains in reward for good service. Sometimes they apologised for not finding her as a child, and took her to Coruscant where - she couldn’t imagine what might happen after that. Surely they had ships she could work on. Childish fancies, nothing more.

But Jango had killed Jedi with his bare hands, because they’d betrayed him. Inevitably he’d been defeated - who could outfight Jedi? - and they’d handed him over to the Governor of Galidraan, who had had an interest in the spice freighter. Shmi wished she could believe he was lying, and nudged the water temperature higher.

“Shmi? Shmi, it’s Chuwst.” Someone tapped lightly on the ‘fresher door. “Berli sent me with her medic’s override. Said your husband had acted the fool and you might want some company.”

“I’m fine,” Shmi called out, and hiccuped on a sob.

“What did that bantha fodder do?” Chuwst said. 

“It’s nothing. I’m fine.” 

“You’re a terrible liar, Shmi,” Chuwst said affectionately. “Can I come in?”

Shmi hiccuped again in lieu of a reply. The zeltron slipped through the door to look at the huddled figure in the bottom of the shower, removed all her electronics and joined Shmi under the downpour. It was unspeakably kind, and somehow Shmi ended up sobbing on the other woman’s shoulder while Chuwst held her, murmuring comforting nothings into the close crop of Shmi’s hair.

“Crying your heart out,” the zeltron said when the storm of tears had subsided, still stroking Shmi’s shoulders. “You poor thing.”

“I’m sorry.” Shmi sniffed back tears, embarrassed by her emotions.

“It takes all of us like that sometimes,” Chuwst said. “On bad nights, I can’t stay in a bed. Jirzu wakes up and I’m under the table, curled in a ball.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.” Nothing she could say seemed adequate. “That’s awful.”

“It is, but he comes over and curls up with me, and he brings the blankets with him.” She nudged Shmi. “The point is, Shmi-honey, you don’t have to be alone. I’m glad your galoot of a man had the sense to tell Berli before he slunk off.”

“It wasn’t his fault,” Shmi said. “Not entirely his fault,” she amended.

“It’s not yours, either. Most of the people whose fault it is aren’t on Lok, so we can’t have Kopajj punch them.” 

Shmi had to smile at that. Kopajj would. 

“C’mon, let’s get you dry. Berli said she’d be along after clinic hours, with tisane.”

Being cosseted like a sick child was disconcerting. Shmi was patted dry and told to get changed while Chuwst took care of her wet clothes and the puddles on the floor. Then she was wrapped in a blanket while Chuwst got her some water, and spoke lightly about what she’d seen on Felucia until Berli turned up.

Over cups of soothing tisane, the twi’lek talked with Shmi about what had happened, as deft and gentle as she was at pulling splinters. Jango’s lies of omission had set off Shmi’s horror at the magnitude of her ignorance. The galaxy was so much wider than her narrow life had let her imagine. Worse, knowing things made Shmi feel safe; a barrier between her and being worked to death in a spice mine. The breach of trust - especially coming from him - had left her terrified, and in a place safe enough she didn’t have to repress her feelings.

“So of course there were waterworks,” said Chuwst, sighing.

”I don’t understand why he didn’t tell me,” Shmi said. That hurt too, a specific place in her chest.

”You’d have to ask him,” said Berli. “But if I had to guess, sometimes even Jango Fett finds it difficult to be Jango Fett.”

”Everyone knew more about him than I did,” Shmi said. “I feel so _stupid._ ”

Chuwst scoffed. “He probably feels at least as stupid right now. I’d bet my left lek on it.”

”Really?” Shmi was doubtful.

”How long do you think he’s been waiting for the perfect moment to tell you?” Berli asked. “Except it exploded in his face instead.”

That seemed plausible. Shmi yawned. She felt like a limp rag.

“Tired? Do you want Jango to come back?” Berli asked. “It’s up to you.”

“I don’t know,” Shmi said, searching the other woman’s face for the answer.

“Then he can stay away until you do,” Chuwst said. Somehow, that made it easier for Shmi to decide that he could return, although she had underestimated how awkward it would be when he walked in.

When they got into bed, too. Shmi folded her hands and looked at the ceiling, too mindful of Jango to sleep. 

“Shmi?” He turned over, rustling the covers. “You had a right to know. I should have told you long ago.” 

“You should have,” said Shmi, tranquil with exhaustion.

“My actions were unacceptable. A debt is owed,” said Jango, in what sounded like a ritual cadence. Shmi remembered the sideways cut of his hand to Berli; then he’d declared the scales even.

Only very rarely had Shmi had been able to affect the path of her life. Change had come towards her as inexorable as the sunset. Now, though, she could make a choice, and it would be honoured. Shmi thought.

“In Mandalorian law, can a debt be owed between a husband and wife?” she asked the darkness, and found Jango’s arms wrapped around her so tightly she could barely breathe.

* * *

Zam Wessell blew in with the autumn winds, and Nym disappeared behind the doors of his suite, leaving Kole in charge of the stronghold. The clawdite’s ship sat on its landing pad as a constant reminder to Shmi every time she walked past it, but she could hardly go and interrupt what Leneft had assured her was a full contact fuckfest.

By then, Jango had his own boarding party. The Revenants preferred fast and efficient action over bloodshed; none of Nym’s captains would tolerate cruelty or willful violence. This suited Jango’s Mandalorian heritage perfectly; while there was some grumbling about his promotion over the heads of people who had been there longer, no one could deny his results.

Together with Shmi, he’d even rigged up something to use as an electro-magnetic grenade which overloaded the Federation droids and sent them tumbling harmless to the floor. From there they were disabled and sold in the grey markets of Nar Shadda, or reprogrammed and used as a labour force by the Revenants themselves. Shmi found them pitiful; whoever had designed them thought like a master. Their limited hardware meant they were incapable of rebellion.

* * *

To her surprise, Zam approached her. Shmi was standing on the wing of a G-400 attempting to diagnose the faulty linkage between the craft’s deflector shields. They were usually reliable - the Revenants had several - and Shmi was hoping it would be a parts issue instead of a design flaw. If she could find it.

“Helloooo,” the clawdite said, draping herself over the gaudy fuselage. She appeared to be a human woman, and was wearing what Shmi assumed was the infamous red suit. “I heard you have a proposition for me.” 

“We do,” said Shmi, stressing the plural. “We need to retrieve something from a vault.”

“A vault!” Zam said, eyes glittering. “It must be worth a lot of credits.”

“I suppose so,” said Shmi, who based the beskar’gam’s value on how Jango spoke of it. “You should come and talk to my husband - he knows more than me.”

“Oh, I will, Jango Fett’s wife.” She tinkled out a laugh. “This is going to be such fun.” 

“Alright,” Shmi said, nonplussed. “See you later?” It couldn’t be that easy, but apparently it could.

* * *

With Jango away on the raiding ships so often, Zam and Shmi did most of the heist planning between them. They made a better team than Shmi had initially feared; Zam’s affections were camouflage. She hid in plain sight, using her shapeshifting abilities as misdirection. Most people would only see what they expected to. Alone with Shmi, or Shmi or Jango, she buckled down and worked as hard as anyone could wish. Zam frequently called in other Revenants for their expertise, grilling them until she was satisfied. Shmi had thought people were cooperating just to curry favour with Nym’s lover, but Jirzu enlightened her.

“S’if anyone here likes governors. Me, I wouldn’t piss on one if they were burning,” he said. “You don’t get to rule a planet by being nice. Zam and you and that husband of yours pulling one over that kind of sithsucking asshole? We’re cheering you on. Make it hurt.”

* * *

All too soon they were ready; they’d done what they could on Lok. The rest would have to come on Galidraan. 

The great hall was crowded that night. Shmi had to push her way through to their alcove, and lurked next to Temika at the back, out of sight of any well-wishers. Leneft and Drem were up on the musician’s dais taking turns playing a bes’bev, the eerie wail of the instrument winding around the soft beat of the drums. Jango sat at the front, flanked by two members of his squad. People would come and offer good luck at poking that nerfherder in the eye, or hope you get your fancy armour back, Mando, but he wasn’t comfortable with the attention. Luckily, Zam was doing her best to draw it away from him. She gloried in it, playing with the long strings of jewels wrapped around her throat as she talked. 

“He’d rather be doing,” said Kopajj with sympathy.

“So would you,” Shmi said. “So would I.”

“We’d noticed. Never see you these days without a datapad in your hand,” teased Chuwst. Shmi protested.

“You’ll be fine,” said Jirzu. 

“Bring us souvenirs. A present from Galidraan, something terrible,” said Berli. 

“I’ll try.” 

“Kopajj likes pilgrim charms,” said Jirzu. 

“You have to go to the shrine yourself,” said the zabrak, shaking her head. “Or it doesn’t count.”  


“I like soap,” said Berli. “Fancy scented soaps.”

“Me too,” agreed Chuwst.”

“Fancy scented lotions,” Jirzu said. “Keeps my ink crisp.”

”Oil for my wings,” said Temika, holding one out critically. “Fancy scented oil.”

”Does anyone want something not fancy and scented?” Shmi asked. “Ikis? Oudjot?”

”Scale oil for me,” said Oudjot, Jango’s second. “Or I get like a trandoshan in winter.”

Ikis was a trandoshan, who asked Shmi very politely for a buffing brush, and some sand. In the before, Shmi would never suspected pirates could be bribed with luxury skin or scale care, and now she had to dig out a scrap of flimsi to make sure she'd gotten everything down correctly. 

“Is there room back there?” asked Jango, voice strained. 

“You’d make a terrible politician, vod.” Kopajj shuffled so he could sit next to Shmi.

“Don’t I know it,” he said. “Fierfek.” He drained half his cup in one long swallow.

Shmi rubbed his arm, and he smiled - a real one - down at her. He’d lost weight since they’d finalised their plan. More than once she’d woken up to find him pacing in the night. Zam seemed impervious to stress, and had gotten up to dance.

“No one has joints like that,” Chuwst said critically. “She’s cheating.” 

“Let me see,” said Berli. “Karking hell, my hips are aching just looking at her.”

Shmi laughed. It was the sort of thing Zam would do.

She had been thinking in the last few days about being free, and how everyone ended up tied to everyone else regardless. Not being a slave didn’t mean you were free; Movot had never worn a collar and chains, but Movot had had the hutt lord’s sigil burned into his pectoral like the rest of his clan. Jango had been made a slave, freed himself, and had chosen to link himself to Shmi. 

Maybe it was different when the ties went both ways; Jirzu and Chuwst were stronger together than they were apart, but so were Chuwst and Berli, or Jirzu and Kopajj. Or Chuwst and Berli holding Shmi between them the day she’d learned what the name Jango Fett meant. They might not count as an _aliit_ to a Mandalorian, but they were to Shmi.

“What are you thinking about, goran’ika?” Little metalsmith. He’d started calling the nickname after she’d come home and announced she was now allowed to manufacture parts.

Shmi licked her lips. “I was thinking that before we go we should jump the fire.”

“What,” said Jango blankly, nearly spilling his drink.

“For good luck, and new beginnings,” she said.

“I know that, but -”

“I can’t really do it with anyone but my husband,” said Shmi, wishing she could look at him sideways through her lashes like Zam could. Jirzu whooped. 

“She’s got you there, vod.” 

“Don’t you want to?” Berli was looking at him quizzically.

“Of course I do, I just thought -” 

“Come on, then,” said Kopajj, getting up. “No time like now.”

Jirzu bore Temika on her cushion. The edge of the firepit was wide, and scored with deep crosshatches. Jango stepped up first, pulling Shmi to stand beside him. From here, it looked wider than she’d imagined, the embers piled higher.

“You're stronger than you think,” said Jango quietly. “Count of three?”

“On three,” said Shmi, gathering her courage, and jumped.

Glossary:

These definitions are mostly taken from the [Mando'a Database](https://mandoa.org/), with much gratitude to the maintainers. 

  * aliit: clan name, identity
  * aliityaim: clan name, identity + home
  * bes’bev: Mandalorian wind instrument also used for combat: a large metal flute with a sharpened, cut-off end.
  * beskar: Mandalorian iron
  * beskar’gam: armor
  * di’kut: idiot, useless individual, waste of space (lit. someone who forgets to put their pants on)
  * goran’ika: blacksmith, metalworker + diminutive suffix written as 'ika - also added to a name as a very familiar or childhood form
  * haar’chak: mild expletive, similar to damn it! or shit!
  * hu’tuun: coward (worst possible insult)
  * osik’la: messed up, screwed, horrible (impolite)




End file.
